


A World Aflame

by God1643



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous Power Levels, Gen, God Harry Potter, Sentient Animals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-08-23 22:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/God1643/pseuds/God1643
Summary: A new player is brought to bear.More powerful than those who have already attempted to intervene, he brings everything to the party.The power of creation itself.How about you come and take a look?





	1. Harry I

Choking cinders and flashing flames, effervescent embers and ineffable infernos. A deep, burgundy red haze within the sky, bared feet buried in shallow pools of liquid, black like coal.

The gritty feel buries in between the toes and scrapes, an irritant, but not enough to detract. The pain is ever growing around, burrowing into the skin. Digging deep and pulling up and away, barbed hooks of guilt and distilled agony never before conceived.

And yet, here it is.

A groan of protest emerges from parched lips, harsh and rasping. The pain barely recedes with the sound, only to return with a vengeance.

A hiss of true pain slides free of gritted teeth, slipping through like melted butter and spilling down, slow and viscous like molasses.

Booming sound awakens ears that have not heard in, well, any time in this universe.

“ _We need your help._ ” The sound whispers, defeated and broken.

Eyes roll in exasperation.

“ **This will be a true challenge this time, at least for your mortal form.** ” Another voice rumbles.

A brow lifts in idle curiosity.

“ _It will require all of your guile…”_

 _“_ **_All of your charisma…”_ ** A third voice presses.

 **_“_ ** **All of your bloodlust…”**

_“All of your truth…_

**_“All of your loving heart…”_ **

The voices boom in unison, crackling with vibrance.

“ **All of your power!”**

Eyes open, each a golden-blue blinding nimbus that ignite like supernovas.

The mouth opens into a tiny smirk, of anticipation, thirst and interest.

“ **_Very well, my children._ **” The mouth says, softly.

The universe rends in twain.


	2. Harry II

A figure melts from the shadows that surround him, the brisk chill about deadening with his presence.

A golden nimbus of light recedes into a tiny sphere, which sinks through the flesh of his chest, and with a flash, is visible no more.

Twin powerful lungs inhale deeply, draughts of air rocketing down his throat. If the sound did not come from one so physically and psychically assured, you would swear he was gasping for breath.

He sits up, warm golden eyes casting about the newest world around him.

A fallen log is his shield from the hot, driving rain, thatched accidentally by a wide and stout evergreen. A murmured chant of appreciation from the man has the fallen log growing once again, burrowing into the ground to become a massive root for the evergreen.

Its needles gain vibrance, dying bushels dropping off only to be instantly replaced. It grows thick and tall, on standby to buffet the winds for its weaker brethren.

The warm golden eyes gain more warmth somehow, regarding the forested swamp around him with a bright smile. The grass and shrubs about where he sits begin to grow hale and hearty, wildflowers blossoming out of season into effervescent colours.

He chuckles, a light, spritely sound, and stands.

Looking about his feet, his children have left him a large knapsack. Kneeling down, he digs through it with silent motions, cataloguing its contents mentally.

A leather smith’s apron, of toughened cowhide, a spare tunic of fine black cloth, two spare pairs of simple pale brown breeches with a sewn-in leather lace belt. A coin purse of golden coins, one larger purse of silver, and one even larger of copper coins.

The golden coins are stamped with a dragon, the silvers with a stag, and the copper with a regal head that he can not identify. A small note explains their value in a sloping hand, that he recognizes as his youngest daughter’s.

Smiling ever so softly, he huffs at her ability to pull his strings.

Standing, he hefts the bag over his shoulder. Holding out his hand, a stave of deadwood rises from the forest floor sixty yards behind him and rockets toward his palm, to smack into the flesh with a satisfying _clap_.

Wiggling his bare toes in the soft earth, he inhales deeply once again.

Mint, pine, cedar, juniper, peat bog, marshlands, rabbit, squirrel and game birds all float up to his nostrils, and he then sets off where the sun says is south.

The cardinal rule of Universe Creation was that all inhabited planets would hold an identical set of standard directions, the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.

If his children had ignored that rule as well as his others, well, the godly realms would get a showing they would never forget.

It was not often that six deities equaled in power only by each other were scolded like naughty school children, but all the other observing deities agreed it was hilarious when it did occur.

Well, when the scolding was over.

During, they only agreed on how hard it was not to shit your pants with Him angry, especially angry in your general vicinity.

Heh.

He just thought it was funny that they believed he could hurt a fly.

Meandering through the bog, nimble feet jumping on rocks and logs without a care to traverse the deadly swamp, the deity hidden in mortal form felt eyes upon him, and continued onwards South.

The eyes followed him, two sets set in faces of skin stained with green, one smaller figure swimming with impressive silence and the other traversing the low branches of trees with even less noise.

Silence was just one aspect of His domain, and entering it merely brought his attention to you, not away.

There was no escape from his domain.

Plants, animals, humans, even gods, all returned into his cavernous heart from whence they were breathed life at the beginning of all things.

A true power walked again amongst mortals now.

Now, and with luck, for a while longer yet.

 

Ryker Snow was a bastard. He knew this, and yet he also knew it counted for little here. The Crannogmen of the Neck had always kept around their people, and had never placed the stress on blood that their neighbours to the south had.

Ryker was a powerful swimmer, with an able, lithe and stocky body. He held his breath for times unprecedented by any living man, save for Lord Howland Reed.

No one was better at the crafts of the Neck than any of the Reeds, and Ryker’s status as a bastard son of a cousin to the Lord lent him much credence amongst encounters with others of the Neck. The Reed features were quite distinctive, after all. Sharp chins and keen, grey-blue eyes.

This morn, however, he felt a distinct unease. He knew his blood shared Greensight, and worried extensively over whether or not this was a vision regarding danger.

Then, a gentle hand reached out and caressed his head, a hand of wind and a soothing whisper of the trees about his lean-to and its humble cot.

These were not to be ignored.

Direct contacts established by the Old Gods were not uncommon amongst those of the North, and especially among those who lived so surrounded by the maples, ironwoods, oaks and alders of the swamp. The larches, the spruces, the pines, and king above all, the Weirwood trees.

And those Weirwoods with the visages, carved once in a time untold by the Children of the Forest, with their power and majesty, and fed and worshipped by the First Men.

They were sacred above any other. Above any other life. Every Crannogman would die for two things.

The Lord Stark, in Winterfell, the only King they knew, and for a Heart Tree.

Ryker was shaken from his reverie by the approaching light footsteps of his beloved, a tiny slip of a young woman with a smile that could ignite the swamp about them.

Like many of the Neck, her skin was stained a light green, but her beauty detracted none for it. If anything, the slight offset to her much darker jade eyes and the bright amber gold hair made for a breathtaking contrast.

She smirked at him, placed a hand over her stomach, and then nodded.

He shot forward, tears prickling at his eyes, and embraced her tightly. She sighed in contentment as his wiry arms wrapped around her and buried her face in the thick black carpet that was his chest hair.

“We belong here, my love. The Old Gods have blessed us with a child, it is time to establish our home.” He said softly.

And so they did.

 

The god in human form felt the joy radiating from a small cottage near him, and smiled his spritely smile and laughed his spritely laugh again.

Two children, twin boys, ran about on a small island surrounded by murky, shallow waters, near a home. Grey smoke puffed merrily from a red brick chimney, on the eastern side of the cottage.

Mud bricks, baked in a kiln until they turned ceramic, formed the foundation of the home. A sturdy porch with a rough-hewn wooden rail sat in front of a heavy oaken door, into the stone walled house. A woman, young and with just the barest streaks of grey in her blonde hair, clearly more from stress than age, nursed a bairn in a rocking chair.

A lithe man with burly arms chopped wood on a stump with a small, yet sharp ax, and looked up from his work with a soft exasperation to watch his two boys.

“Hello!” The god called merrily. Four heads turned to look at him in eerie synchronization, and three of the four faces ignited into a shocked expression. The fourth, the father, furrowed his brow into a frown. He hefted his ax.

“Good afternoon stranger. What do they call you?” The man rumbled warily.

“People call me many things. I prefer Harry.” The god, now identified, said with his smile.

“Harry, eh? You got a surname?” Asked the man.

“They called my father James Potter, but I did not know him. I am an orphan.” Harry replied candidly, a shrug of his shoulders. He visibly pulled away from the topic and looked about.

“This is a wonderful place you have made, and what a beautiful family!” Harry said, beaming still. The man found himself easing the tension in his shoulders slightly.

“Aye, thank you. I am called Ryker, Ryker Snow. This is my wife, Lyarra Snow. My sons, Eddard and Howland. We welcome you, stranger, but I know not your house, nor your motives. I pay close attention to all who come to my home, so remote as it is, and a man with the look of a careless wanderer seems to need help.” Ryker rumbled.

“Well, it is good to see a man with vision and watchfulness.” Harry replied. He gestured in a query to use a nearby stump, and Ryker nodded warily. Harry sat down and removed his knapsack, setting it between his legs and beginning to rumage.

“Now, if I could ask one things of you?” Harry queried, his hands still busy.

“Yes?” Ryker asked, concerned and once more hefting his ax.

“Aha!” Harry shouted, pulling out a cloth map from the bottom of the bag. He splayed it in his arms and then approached Ryker, and spoke.

“Where in the world am I?” Harry asked, looking around with unceasing wonder at the world around him. The four looked at each other and employed thorough use of the Language of the Eyebrow, and it was the woman this time who spoke.

“None who do not keep their wits about them make it far in the Neck, let alone all the way to our home. Surely, this line of query is a jest?” When she spoke, her voice was rich and sugary, like a fine honeyed wine.

“No, no jest. I have no idea where we are, and you are the first people I have seen in my three hours of wandering in the forest about us. I usually pick south as a direction to travel, and this was no change. Due south of the camp where I awoke was your land.” Harry replied.

“You came from North of here. Did you see any animals in your path?” Ryker asked shrewdly. The truest sign of a malicious man was how the Old Gods instructed their animals to avoid him.

“Why yes! Little Tomas here was in a tree, and jumped onto my head!” Harry replied, reaching into a pocket in his baggy trousers and drawing out a curled young squirrel, who seemed displeased with being awoken. He looked around, hissed at Ryker, and scrambled up Harry’s arm to perch on his shoulder.

Harry blessed the little thing with a beam and scratched at its chin. Harry took quiet notice of the four’s relaxing postures, and smiled as Ryker pointed firmly to a spot on the map.

Near the middle of the western continent, in a place split by mountain ranges on the left and the right, was a large patch marked in green ink, labeled ‘THE NECK’. Above it sat a sprawling country, labeled in a pale white that clearly represented snow, labeled ‘THE NORTH’.

Beneath it, in orange, pale blue, red, gold, amber, dark blue, pale grey and light green, were various smaller countries in varied shapes and sizes.

“We live in the Neck, we are the barrier between the southern kingdoms and the North, where Lord Eddard Stark rules. He is a good man, honourable and just. Beneath us is the South, made of seven kingdoms and ruled by a single king in the Crownlands.” Ryker explained.

“Our king, Robert Baratheon, rules from a pit of vipers known as King’s Landing, where the founder of the dynasty that he rebelled against first arrived three centuries ago. I was born there, it is a foul pit of self-interest and spying, where no one is to be trusted and no one helps any other.” Lyarra spat.

“Beware the south, brother. Our North is cold, indeed, and barren in many places, but our folk are good and true. We are as likely to give you a warm bed and thick stew as the southerners are to stick you in the gut and smash in your head with your own coin purse.” Ryker proclaimed.

“Thank you for the advice.” Harry nodded seriously, scooping up Tomas and placing the little kit into the pocket from whence he emerged.

“I shall head North then, to the seat of this Lord Stark.” Harry decided. “Where does he rule from?” Ryker pointed firmly again with his strong finger, at an icon of a walled tower with a broken cap.

“Winterfell. Lord Stark is a good man. He will assist you in finding a place, as he did me a decade ago. Inform him that Ryker Snow has a wife, and a son named after him, if you would.”

“Have you a trade?” Lyarra piped up.

“I can forge steel, fine steel. I can read and write, and my father left me some small coin. Perhaps I can start up a forge or work for a master.” Harry proclaimed.

He stepped back, folded up his map and placed it within his bag. Closing the heavy leather flap and snapping the clasp into place, he heaved it onto his back with a grunt and took up his walking stave again.

As he bowed deeply in thanks, a green nimbus of light washed from him and overtook the four, removing age lines from Lyarra, granting new strength to the three boys, turning their meager crops into a lush bounty, and bringing a new life to the cottage.

As Ryker and the family gaped, Harry stood from his bow, placed a finger on his lips and winked with a wide smile, before turning on his heel and leaving with a merry skip and a spritely song.

“Thank you Harry! We won’t forget you!” Eddard and Howland called together, after their daze broke. But Harry was already gone, vanished into the trees.

Merry laughter echoed around them; faint, and they knew he had heard.


	3. Harry III

Harry walked with a jolly spring up the Kingsroad, a small band of mildly confused and yet equally joyful animals trotting along in his wake. His many conjured pockets kept the babies warm as he assisted their impromptu migration, with a truly obscene number of varying types of Sciuridae perched on his shoulders.

Harry chittered along an intriguing conversation with an elderly squirrel, her cheek fur much grayer than the others, fielding as a translator and contributor to the speech between an aging bull Moose and the old squirrel.

The strange sounds Moose used to communicate did not come out of a human mouth easily, and the Moose commented teasingly on Harry’s accent every few miles they traveled.

An adult bull elk, just growing back in his fourth set of antlers, stopped dead in front of the party. He turned and blasted out a warning call.

“ _ On my back, Sprite. _ ” The old Bull Moose, Bushfoot, commanded. Harry launched upward in a remarkable display of agility and landed softly on Bushfoot’s back, squeezing tight with his legs to stay balanced as the Moose launched away through the brush and into the treeline.

His massive antlers pushed away the branches in front and easily allowed Harry to dodge the larger limbs and avoid a head injury. Soothing the bull with a whisper, Harry guided him around to the treeline and concealed them.

A thundering of hooves preceded the massive column of men riding down the road, hoisting banners of Giants with broken chains around their wrists. At their head rode a man so large Harry wondered if he had giant’s blood in him, accompanied by two younger men the same size and clearly his sons.

Harry barked a command to Bushfoot and the Moose launched forward, stopping in the center of the road and blustering loudly. The column leader held up a hand in a fist, and the riders slowed down to a halt before Harry.

“Who would stand before us?” The man’s elder son called.

Harry sat up straighter atop Bushfoot and called in response.

“I am called Harold, and I bear a message from Ryker Snow for The Lord Eddard Stark.”

“The Lord Stark is currently being held hostage in the South.” The older leader rumbled, his eyes tired. Harry felt his eyes widen.

“Hostage?” Harry asked gravely. The three men nodded.

“Well, hurry up! We have a rescue to mount!” Harry bellowed, spinning Bushfoot about and galloping off. The elder man chuckled heartily.

“You heard the man, boys! Let us ride!” He called, raising his arm high and dropping it, and the column moved off in a canter down the paved road.

 

Harry led the column southbound, not by being granted leadership but by the sheer speed of Bushfoot. His natural impetuousness and his bright, charismatic speech had the men roused quickly in the morn and camp pitched even faster in the dusk.

“Come on men! Our Lord has need of us! An Umber man has never failed a Stark, and they will not start now!” Harry bellowed as he raced through the tents, clanging a wooden spoon on a pot and summoning a truly rather impressive racket.

The men felt a strange fire racing in their blood as the young man passed, at least once the ringing in their ears had halted enough to saddle their horses and harness the wagons.

It was three days later that they passed Moat Cailin, and two days more when they were through the Neck and out the other side.

The four hosts of the larger northern lords, the Karstarks, the Boltons, The Umbers and the Manderlys all gathered under the grey direwolf of Stark as the young Robb led them to war.

 

Four days of waiting, planning, and exploring found Harry once again approached by the Greatjon.

“Come, young Harold. Robb calls his lieutenants, and my sons need an example to retain their calm. You are not to speak.” The Greatjon ordered. Harry nodded his acceptance.

“I shall be as quiet as a sept mouse.” Harry replied with a smirk. The Greatjon chuckled at yet another of his strange expressions, and led him away to the Lord’s Tent.

Bright white canvas made up the walls of the tent, with a large table within the center of the tent and chairs stacked about. The Umbers took their spot, with Harry beside them, nodding at various lords with whom they were acquainted.

A young man strode in, flanked by a dour teen slightly older and a mature woman in her early forties with her face pinched up in disapproval.

The younger teen walked with a straight back and yet a slightly unsure bearing, clearly unused to his role. The older teen conducted a sweep of the tent, his hand upon the hilt of his sword, and upon seeing no threats, stood beside the chair at the head of the table.

The younger sat in the head chair, and now Harry was able to put faces to names. The Lord Stark was the younger, the woman was The Lady-Mother Catlyn Stark, and the dour teen his half-brother, Ser Jon Snow.

Lady Catlyn took her seat regally at his left hand, and Robb cast his gaze for a few long, poignant moments at the pieces, figurines and icons upon the map on the table.

“My Lords.” Robb spoke, quieting the small din of hushed conversations. Eyes fell upon him, but he did not fidget or squirm.

‘ _ Impressive for a lad of fifteen. _ ’ Harry mused.

“The Twins present a problem. Walder is a weasel, as are most of his sons. There is dissent amongst them regarding inheritance should the Late Lord die, with Ser Stevron currently favoured. He is sympathetic to our cause.” Robb explained.

Harry coughed, raising a hand. Staring with a bemused expression, Robb spoke.

“Yes?”

“In our days waiting here, My Lord, I have done much exploring. To the southwest, a mile or less, is a stone work bridge hidden deep in the woods. It is old, and looks in bad shape, but it held the weight of my steed and myself no matter how many times I tested its strength.” Harry offered up. Robb scratched at his beard.

“If we make a show of treating with Lord Frey while repairing the bridge, we can lead our army across the Green Fork further south than the Lannisters will be expecting.” Robb mused.

“If we send a division with aid on an armoured barge down the river, they could withstand bombardment from the soldiers and deliver aid and food to Riverrun.” The Smalljon said, softly.

“Tis a good idea, but the Tully’s have held that castle from sieges far longer than anything the Lannister’s can afford to wait out, and its walls are too thick for most siege engines to do much damage.” Rickard Karstark countered.

“Aye. As much as it hurts, the family of my mother will have to hold out. Crossing the Green Fork takes a grim priority.” Robb proclaimed. His Lords nodded in agreeance with his tactical thinking over emotions. Robb turned to Harry.

“We ride for this bridge, stranger. If I discover I have been tricked, you will face justice.” Robb said, his tone final and brooking no argument.

“Just to the bone. A true Stark, to follow eight thousand years of them, you are, my Lord.” Harry praised with a small smile. The Greatjon threw his head back in a booming laugh that shook the tent walls and slapped a hand down on Harry’s shoulder, nearly sending Death’s forehead into the tabletop.

Harry led the small party from the tent, bowing in recognition of Robb’s authority before he made for Bushfoot. The old Bull Moose lifted his great head from the grass where he ate with the horses, and waited for Harry to come in close to murmur in his language.

“ _ You have need of me again, friend _ ?” Bushfoot asked, and Harry nodded, offering a carrot. Bushfoot chuffed and took the treat, blustering as he lowered himself down and Harry climbed aboard.

“Are you ready, My Lord Stark?” Harry queried, side-passing Bushfoot to stand just beside Robb.

“Aye, stranger.” Robb agreed. Harry clicked once and Bushfoot shuffled off at a trot, the horses of the Lords following behind.

Harry led them forward with the familiarity of a local, drawing thoughts from Robb regarding this man’s capability, and wondering about his origins.

Harry traced his previous path, two lefts and a right by an old, broken silver oak, and came to a stop within a clearing. Waving his arm in a joking show, he took a low bow over Bushfoot’s head as the Lords came to a stop.

“Here we are.” Harry proclaimed unnecessarily, pointing out the bridge.

Long, low and seemingly sturdy, it was crafted of grey granite bricks bound by thick layers of a primitive black mortar. Two long rotten wooden posts, one on each side, held up a faded painting on a metal shield, a golden crown studded with emeralds, on a red-brown field.

The Sigil of House Mudd.

“There is one open spot where the railing failed, I suspect from a flood, but the mortar holds strong and the stones crumble not under our weight.” Harry said, patting Bushfoot.

The old moose huffed and tossed his head.

“A fine find, stranger.” Robb admitted.

“My thanks.” Said Harry, bowing his head.

“You request no reward for this?” Robb queried, clearly confused.

“You promise me an audience with your Lord Father and I will serve you faithfully.” Harry replied. Not one to look upon a gift suspiciously, Robb nodded.

“So long as my father survives the Lannisters, I vow, upon my honour that you shall have your time to speak with him.” Robb agreed. Harry smiled his spritely smile.


	4. Eddard I

As Lord Eddard lay, cramped and agonized against his bonds in the Black Cells, he felt his ears prick up, straining to hear a specific sound.

Confused, he allowed his instincts, the Blessing of the Wolf, to overtake his senses.

_ There _ .

A rat emerged from a hole in the wall, scuttling forward in purposeful movements to sit on its haunches beside Eddard. It looked up at him and pierced his gaze, drawing enough of his attention for his full faculties to return.

As he made to speak to it, it held up a paw, as if asking him to wait.

Familiar enough with animals blessed by the Old Gods, he felt himself calm at seeing a human mannerism appear in a beast once again.

Turning over its shoulder, it squeaked loudly, thrice.

Four rats, larger and darker than the first, backed out of the hole in the wall, dragging cloth bundles. Bemused, and more than a little shocked, Eddard felt himself grin as the largest placed its bundle by his feet.

It pushed it forward.

Eddard opened it carefully, seeing rolls, sweet buns and cured jerky within. Shaking his head multiple times, like the dog the Lannisters thought him, he cleared his head and ensured this was no dream.

Then, with carefully controlled motions to keep the starvation from robbing his senses, he began to eat.

The next two bundles carried waterskins, and a quick pour left it appearing clean and clear. Nodding to himself, he tore up a bun and offered pieces to the rats, and began to drink. As the motley crew ate their fill of the food, Eddard felt his strength returning.

Slowly eating through the food, until there was naught left but scraps, inedible to humans and yet delicacies to rats, he lay back against his rotten hay bedding and fell into a deep sleep.

 

Eddard felt his eyes open, and he was no longer within the cell.

Instead of the sunless room, with its blackened bricks and sickening scents, he stood in a meadow, upon a hill with clear sight to everything in a circle around him.

Feeling weight upon his shoulders, he felt his body, taking note of the cuirass and vambraces he wore. Looking to his shoulders, he saw his wolfshead pauldrons, long since locked away until war came again, polished and gleaming in the dawning sun.

“Welcome, my son.” Came a rumbling voice behind him, and Eddard whirled, instincts reaching for a sword that was not there. There stood Rickard Stark and his wife Lyarra Stark nee Karstark, with Brandon and Lyanna beside him, all smiling. A pregnant pause stretched on.

“Is this all real? Or is it just happening inside my head?” Eddard asked.

“Of course it’s happening inside your head. Why should that mean that it’s not real?” Brandon returned, grinning wide as he approached his armoured brother.

Eddard stared unblinking at his elder brother for a silent moment, before launching himself forward in a tackle to embrace him.

Brandon exclaimed joyfully at the move, falling to the grass onto his back and exploding into laughter. Hiking up her graceful, if impractical skirts, Lyanna ran forward, let loose a joyful cry, and jumped atop her brothers onto the pile.

Rickard took his wife’s hand and smiled at the scene of his children, reunited and wrestling like the pups he had raised so long ago.


	5. Eddard II

Eddard sat, dishevelled and smiling, between his siblings on a log bench beside a rock-ring fire pit, crackling merrily in the evening air.

“Son.” Rumbled Rickard, snatching the attention of his children.

“Yes, Father?” Queried Eddard and Brandon in unison, nudging each other. Rickard chuckled at their antics, reaching over to lay another log onto the blaze.

“This vision is a gift, a glimpse into the Realm of Death.” Rickard began. Eddard nodded his understanding.

“We were extremely surprised to be contacted to assist you, for the dead interfere not in the affairs of the living, under pain of being consigned to the Void.” Lyarra began.

“However, upon learning of your plight, we could not deny you.” Lyanna added.

“Thank you, Lya.” Eddard said softly to his sister. She smiled softly and laid her head on his shoulder. Lyarra continued.

“This realm is a dream, we function at the speed of thought. We are here to help in any way we can, and the assistance of our Lord and his Daughter are our means of doing so.”

“Lord and Daughter?” Eddard queried.

“The Lord Death, and his youngest daughter, Anesha. She sent her assistance in the form of the place we sit in, crafting this realm. The Lord Death granted our souls passage here, and sent an envoy to you in the form of those young rats.” Explained Rickard.

“But to what end? Why me?” Eddard asked.

“He has recently been wandering the mortal world at the request of his children, and encountered a soul pure and honest enough to take a request. This man had a message for you, and this was the catalyst that led to Lord Death discovering the injustices taken against you and our remaining Kin.” Rickard explained.

“I don’t think I can ever thank him enough.” Eddard admitted quietly.

A flash of light in the clearing drew the attention of everyone gathered.

A woman, so graceful in her beauty even the very air around her seemed to scramble away, as to not pollute her, stood regally where the light receded.

“ _ Living well is gratitude enough for my father, child. _ ” She said, her voice so rich and smooth even the finest singers would kill and die for the barest reflection.

Eddard fell to his knees before the woman, bowing his head in supplication.

The other Starks laughed, and Eddard felt confusion overtake him, until a warm hand laid on his shoulder. Staring upwards in shock at both the distance she had instantly covered and that she would touch him, sweaty and messy from his wrestling as he was, he saw only maternal care in her eyes.

“ _ Calm yourself, child. Our truth is not of desiring submission, as the Southerners seem to believe. Your First Men are far closer to the truth, passive respect and the occasional prayer is plenty for us. Our fulfillment comes in assisting those who truly require and deserve it. You are one such man.” _ The woman proclaimed.

“I… I know not how to respond, my Lady. I feel it would be improper to stand in your presence.” Eddard hedged. The woman laughed, musical and cheery to the point of enriching the realm around her.

“ _ Very well, child. Then I shall return you to the mortal realm, with a gift, a compulsion. Do not fight it. It is approaching dawn, and you have much work to do within your cell. _ ” Said the goddess.

Eddard turned his head to see the smiling Starks, aglow with love. Blinking back tears, he gave them a nod, informing them that he would live through this.

“For you.”

“No." Declared Lyanna. "For yourself.”

 

When Eddard awoke, he felt refreshed in a way that sleep had not granted since before the war, before Robert started drinking and they were merely two distant cousins merrily running about in the Giant’s Lance.

The rats were back, six this time, carrying large bundles of cloth. Within these were thick cut meats, bacon, ham, and a hearty hunk of cheese.

Devouring all that was not to be set aside for his helpers, Eddard stood on shaky legs.

He had been seated or lying down for the past fifteen days, wallowing in despair and worry for his daughters. Now, for his family, he would wallow no longer.

“Brandon, Lyanna, Benjen, Mother, Father, Robb, Jon, Bran, Sansa, Arya, Rickon,  _ Cat _ . Brandon, Lyanna…” Eddard chanted to himself, feeling the mentioned compulsion take over his body.

It put him through exercises, which, while they made the buried lordly persona within him recoil in protest regarding how undignified it was, he could already feel strength returning to him, feel his leg healing actively.

When he was exhausted, not able to press his own weight upwards once more, he flopped downward, drew down the remaining water from the skin brought by the rats, and collapsed into sleep.

As he once again entered the land of sleep, he could’ve sworn he felt a warm glow directed from somewhere above him.

And for the first time since Rickon’s birth, Eddard Stark fell asleep with a smile on his face, ragged through it was.


	6. Arya I

“Teach me.”

Those were the first words out of Sansa’s mouth, the first sound, other than a single hum of surprise when she fell once, that had emerged from those pretty plump lips since she had come back North to Winterfell, spirited away by the Stark spies.

“What?” Asked Arya, looking away from the window of their gilded cage. Sansa turned to her sister, a fury and a fire ignited in her dark blue eyes, now more tempest and storm than crisp and warm summer’s day.

“Teach me to fight, like you. Teach me to survive.” Sansa declared, only the vulnerability in the words themselves keeping Arya from snapping at her for such a demanding tone.

Arya looked at her sister for a long moment, a painfully drawn out silence. Then, Arya hung her head and shook in disagreement.

“You aren’t ready.” Arya declared evenly. Then, she raised her gaze to meet her sister’s, and smirked. “Yet. But you will be.” And though Sansa’s smile matched her sister’s perfectly, in devious mischief, Sansa couldn’t help but feel unnerved by the light in Arya’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. More coming.


	7. Sansa I

It was hell. A burning, painful hell. But, it was certainly rewarding. She could already feel the muscle tone gathering on her arms, the aches each day growing into smaller and smaller flares that lasted less time.

Their morning guard, a bearded, kindly and stocky porkchop of a man named Breker, had barely blinked when they requested the swap from noble breakfast foods to the same hearty stews the guards were fed, and had only offered a tiny, token protest when they insisted they eat with him.

He gave them tips about fighting, remarking constantly about how similar their devious smiles were to both each other, but also to their Aunt Lyanna.

“The Wild Wolves come again, but this time, neither Brandon nor Lyanna, but Arya and Sansa. A Northern name and a Southern name, but both Stark wolves.” He said with a small smile once, slipping an old book across their shared round table.

“What is this?” Arya asked softly, wiping her hands to gently lift the battered journal. Breker had smiled wider, this one fond and not bittersweet like the other before, untainted by the death of Lyanna and now by plain love.

“These are my notes. I had meant to give them to my son, for he is of a slight build like yours, but he chose not the warrior’s path. He’s up at Eastwatch, serving their blacksmith.” Breker had said softly, the quietest they had ever heard the boisterous man.

“This is…” Sansa had begun, but stopped, unable to finish. Her eyes had watered, and merely smiled, laying a pale palm over Breker’s mitt.

“What do you know, Lady’s speechless.” Arya had teased, her eyes watering alongside her sister despite the slightly mocking crooked grin she wore so well.

“Oh, that’s not so hard. You just used to make her so angry, and the only way she had to make you angry in return was to be better at the things you so desperately wanted to be good at too, but were afraid it would lock you in as a girly girl forever.” Both girls had stared slack-jawed at him, something he didn’t seem to notice.

“I know you’re better with needles than you let on, Arya, just as I know Sansa isn’t nearly as good with hair and dresses as she seems. She had to keep Jeyne around for  _ some _ reason, after all.”

“Breker! I had no idea you were so caught up on girl politics!” Sansa had teased, her shock almost forgotten. Breker had thrown back his maned head in a booming laugh.

“The first rule amongst guards is to know who you’re guarding. That’s why those of us who were soldiers and became guards were chosen, you know, because we could read people.” Breker had said, leaning forward over his stew and whispering conspiratorially.

The three laughed.


	8. Barristan I

It was quiet at this hour, peaceful upon the battlements of Meagor’s Holdfast. Built with a far more dastardly purpose, these stones were bathed in old blood and the tears of those who both did not belong and did not need to be there in the first place.

Ser Barristan stared outward, lost in deep thought as his gaze scanned the Kingswood, ever vigilant for threats. Bandits massing, scouting thieves, even rises in populations of benign animals can result in increased predators drawn in, at first craving nought but venison but eventually pouncing on a poor bedraggled traveler.

He was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for more than just his seniority or his experience, but because he took it the most seriously. Ser Blount, Ser Trant and Ser Moore were all Cersei’s creatures, only Ser Greenfield owed any semblance to loyalty to Selmy, having been his squire.

Ser Arys Oakheart was an old friend, Selmy and Oakheart being veterans of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but Ser Jaime was held by the balls by his sister, the Queen.

Ser Barristan felt his eyelid twitch as he considered the man, foul smug prick that he was. Perhaps the greatest offense by the Kingslayer to Ser Barristan, surprisingly enough to most who might guess, was not that Jaime had put Aerys out of his madness, but that he had killed Jory Cassel.

The humble captain of the Stark Personal Guard, a good man, with two young boys and a widow now waiting,  _ pining _ for his return that would never come. Barristan knew his father, Martyn Cassel quite well, the elder Cassel having served as his guard and watcher as he healed following the events of the Trident.

Martyn had later been killed at the Tower of Joy, murdered by Barristan’s old friend, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull.

Thinking of that, imagining Ser Gerold with that famed battle-snarl beneath his silver helm as he struck down the kind, gruff man, was not an image he enjoyed.

A snapping sound drew his gaze downward, and he saw his own hand, white knuckled around the shards of his sword handle, the wood splintered into his hand and drawing blood. Hissing, he drew a white kerchief from with a small satchel on his sword belt and wrapped his hand, inspecting his sword as he went to see Pycelle.

The tang was  _ bent _ , warped out of shape and indented with the force of his fingers, the ornamental golden pommel hanging limp, and a crack ran from edge to edge along the shoulder above the crossguard.

Grumbling regarding the workmanship, he greeted Pycelle with false pleasantries and sat quietly, deep in thought, as the man efficiently went about his work.

Say what you will about Pycelle, he knew medicine.

Barristan offered the older man his thanks and marched from the room, heading for the Tower of the Sword, and to his quarters. Doffing his armour, he ensured there were no kinks in the leather and buckles hung loose, and allowed the cuirass and greaves to hang upon the racks, setting his sabatons nearby.

Slipping into his bed and covering himself only in his white cloak, as was tradition, Ser Barristan rested on his back and closed his eyes, the tension dropping from his frame, and  _ fell _ into darkness.

 

Coming awake with a grunt of surprise, Ser Barristan looked about wildly as he scrambled upward, settling into an unarmed crouch and scanning his unfamiliar surroundings. He stood in a courtyard, with a tall, gnarled tree set in pillowy loam soil in the far corner, a brook babbling away somewhere nearby.

“Good evening!” Boomed a voice, so loud it seemed as though King Robert might have a twin. He whirled about, having to curb the instinct to reach for a blade he knew was not there, and felt his jaw go slack in shock.

There, before him not ten feet away, stood a man, so tall and broad he seemed to blot out the sun behind him, clearing easily over the Mountain’s height, and dwarfing three men stood abreast.

“Hello…” Trailed Ser Barristan, his concern shot up to the absolute limit at the monstrous man before him.

“Ah, my apologies.” Said the man, laying a massive hand on his equally massive chest, and inclined his great head, shaking loose dozens of thick braids. “I am called Samson, but your people know me as The Warrior.”

Ser Barristan could see that, he could certainly imagine this man was a god, but he was still far too wary to believe anything at this point.

“Where am I?” He queried, in that soft hoarse rasp of those on their toes. The Warrior snapped his massive fingers, changing the world around them from an open courtyard to the central quarters of the Tower of the Sword, the seven seated table replaced with two seats, across from one another. Samson took the much larger one.

“We are wherever you feel most comfortable, just as before we were where I feel most comfortable, the training yard where my father taught me the ways of the weapon.” Answered the Warrior, smiling amiably. “Tea?” He offered, the steaming cup hilariously small in his hands. Ser Barristan reached warily over to grab the mug.

He took a cautious sip as he stared down the man, observing and cataloguing everything he could.

“What do you want with me?” He said after the tea had slid down his throat, feeling naked and unsafe without his trusted armour.

“Why, to bless you, of course.” Said the god, as though it was obvious. Barristan narrowed his old, canny green-grey eyes and really looked at the god opposite him.

His eyes were blinding, a golden colour with a deep crimson sheen to them, but Barristan had stared down worse, stared into the Mountain’s rabid bloodlusting eyes and not flinched.

“Not many can withstand my gaze.”

“Not many aren’t afraid of you.” Barristan returned instantly, feeling his hand rocket up to cover his mouth, worrying internally about how that had slipped out.

“You can’t lie here, not in my realm, just as I cannot lie to you. It’s an open place, if quite blunt. I prefer that, you know, with my size I never felt comfortable holed up in small spaces.” Samson spoke amiably, gesturing gently with his small tea cup in his opposing hand.

That said, he was clearly dangerous. There was power locked in those arms, muscled defined on his hips and his back, the kind of muscle built to break men in twain.

Barristan did not underestimate people. Did not fear them. Did he fear what they might do? Of course. He had a young grandnephew who was all that was left of the Selmy line, he worried if there were Blackfyre sympathisers who would want some revenge.

He had worried, as he rode down to close the distance with Maelys the Monstrous, if he would make it alive and hale from the fight, but he had not feared the man. Had not feared the bastard’s keen sword as he hefted his brutal, wickedly sharp lance, but he had kept his heels dug in and his mind shut off from fear.

“You earned my blessing that day, you know. I just couldn’t act on it.” Admitted Samson.

“A god couldn’t act? Not wouldn’t?” That was the trick with honesty. Questions were honest too, and Barristan was honestly bewildered by the fact.

“My father had not yet re-awakened from his ordeal. I needed his permission to interfere with the Realms of the Mortal, but he is awake now. On your world in particular, as a matter of fact. I considered two others deserving of blessings, but the one is old and does not wish to fight, and the other is quite happy raising his children.”

“In my experience, the Gods do not much consider how us Mortals feel.” Barristan returned, more than a little bitterness and snark in his voice.

“We have not been active in six thousand years, have not interfered. Prayers and pleas have been useless, except in the direst of circumstances where our Mother could override Father’s command not to interfere. Sixteen times we stopped the end of the world, and sixteen times we withdrew.”

“And you’re here now? Are you going to withdraw again?”

“We’re here to stay. Father does not idly involve himself. The war will last, and I will be there to fight it, along his side as I am fated. You will be my avatar among the Mortals, upholding justice no matter the cost. Those not of righteous soul who attempt to interfere, will be struck dead by your blade.”

Samson reached over to grab a sword, that had appeared on the table. It was the same from this morning, tang bent and handle shattered. Samson drew the edge over his palm, drawing liquid silver blood onto the blade and murmuring a low chant.

The tang straightened, a leather wrap flew from the darkened corner of the realm and wrapped it tightly, the blade sharpened and a single fuller appeared down the center.

“This is  _ Amara _ . Do not dishonour her, or I will break you.” Samson proclaimed, more God than the amiable man he had been for the conversation.

He handed over the blade slowly, and Ser Barristan took it with equal reverence.

“I will treat her like she is my own child.” Barristan proclaimed, then paused. “Well, like a child I kill evil men with.” He joked lightly, more in awe of the sharpness of the blade and the aura it gave off then anything.

Samson threw back his maned head and laughed a booming laugh, taking the joke at face value and keeping it for what it was, an attempt to lighten the mood.

He smiled as he stared down at Ser Barristan.

“Sleep well, Vessel. I shall watch over your line.” Ser Barristan smiled, genuinely, for the first time in years, and felt his eyes drift closed in the chair in the Warrior’s Realm.


	9. Brynden I

A figure strode into a cave, cloaked in red-trimmed black cloth and holding out a lantern. The lantern seemed to shine differently depending on how you looked at it, as bright as the sun when ignored and dimly when looked at.

The hand that clutched it was clearly old, with fingers thin and hands gnarled, a steady hold extending the light out into the darkness.

A figure emerged, counterpoint to the elder, and crossed her arms. She was green of hair and tawny of skin, with wide eyes, slitted like a cat, and a good two feet shorter than the lantern-bearer.

“Your kind are not welcome here.”

The cave around them, gnarled with roots, rattled in… what sounded like disapproval of the words. At least, as much as such a nebulous sound could express emotion. The tiny figure shivered at the sound, backing down and allowing the lantern bearer through.

As the smaller caught a glimpse under the cloak, she saw an older woman, still beautiful if grey of hair, staring at her in kind understanding. She knew precisely this righteous rage the younger felt, knew how it ached at the chest.

The lantern-bearer came to a small chamber, where a man sat, wrapped in roots and with one eye peeking through the darkness. A deep, scarlet eye.

“Good evening, greenseer.” The lantern bearer observed the formalities.

“Good evening, Wise One.” Replied the wrapped man, pleasant even now. The Wise One smiled softly, drawing away her hood to reveal a woman of unparalleled beauty, pretty not in the way where she was  _ once _ a beauty, but as if she truly matched her own attractiveness  _ now _ , in her advanced age.

Wrinkles touched at her temples, eyes, mouth and nose, but did not overwhelm her. The light, nearly luminescent quality of her pale skin made the wrinkles nearly impossible to see, casting no severe shadows in the silent darkness about them.

“It is good to see you not within the Dream, Madam Crone.” Admitted the man, his bearing more gentle than perhaps his severely frown-lined visage might suggest.

“And you as well, Ser Brynden.” This ‘Madam Crone’ replied, identifying both herself and him in one fell swoop to any observers. She knew well how irritating it could be to have to track a conversation to the start in the Dream only to know the names of those involved.

“I’ve missed your blunt speech, darling.” Brynden said. The Crone covered her mouth with her hand to laugh with false demurity, her eyes aglow with delight, a low pulsing silver light through her pupils.

“And I have missed your lack of fear, you handsome devil.” The Crone teased readily in response, truly delighting in this in a way she hadn’t in a long time.

“What is it you bring my attention to today, darling?”

“My Brother awakes, returning to the mortal realm. Already my niece and my nephew bless their champions, and I await mine.” Here she gestured to him. “You await the same one, a young boy.”

The single scarlet eye widened.

“Ah.”

“Indeed. I cannot sit by as his legs cripple him so, nor can I allow my Avatar’s mentor to be so limited in the Dream and in the Waking.”

“I am afraid I do not understand, Madam Crone.”

“You will.” And with that, she reached into her lantern,  _ through _ the glass, and drew free, cupped in her hand, a gently flickering flame. She approached him, the flame dim, and as she grew closer, it began to roar and spit in her palm.

Brynden drew away slightly, his scarlet eye wide, but a murmured shushing had him holding still.

Her hands pressed against his chest, pushing the flame into his heart. He seized, his head rolling back and his back curling up.

As the Madam Crone began to chant, he started to slip free of his prison, carried by the writhing roots, to stand on his own two feet for the first time in decades.

And as his soles touched the ground, his body grew hale and hearty, he stood up proud from his stoop, spine now healed, and when he blinked awake, three glowing green eyes snapped to see her face.

She stared into the one set into his forehead unflinchingly, and grunted, satisfied with her work.

“Goodnight, old friend.” Then she smirked. “Dream well.”

“Always, old friend.”

She laughed. She tapped his temples with her bowed hands, and he fainted dead away onto a bed of roots. She murmured something unflattering regarding caring too much, and if only her mother could see her now.

Laughter exploded around her, the cave ignited by vibrant light.

“ _ Oh, but I can, daughter. _ ” And as The Crone began to swear up a storm, her mother’s taunting, delighted laughter began dogging her steps in turn.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue where this is going. Tell me what you think.


End file.
